by Mark Burnell
Petra tested the small black rucksack, ensuring that it was fastened securely to her back, and then flexed her fingers inside thin black gloves. The palms and fingertips were coated in spray-fine rubber for extra grip. She checked the narrow alley for observers but saw no one. At the foot of the drain-pipe there were four cartons of discarded Chinese food. The aroma of sweet and sour stuck unpleasantly at the back of her throat. She began the ascent. Despite the wetness, the grip on her boots never faltered on the brick. A lesser climber might have made for the three small windows high to her right in the hope that one of them was unfastened. But Petra went straight for the flat warehouse roof. At the top of the drain-pipe, she tugged on the guttering. It wobbled so she turned her attention to the concrete overhang. She ran her fingers over the surface. The rain had made it slippery but Petra felt confident. One hand rose to the top of the ledge, her fingers splaying and then tensing. The second hand followed. When both were in place she gently released her thigh-grip on the drain-pipe.
For a second, she looked down into the alley below, a slice of blackness between the backs of two buildings. She steadied her hanging body and thought, momentarily, of Frank, alone in his bed, under the impression that there was a panic at Brillex-Martins and that she was expecting to have to work through the night.
It was too risky to attempt any swing so she hauled her body upwards, bringing her chin level with her hands, aware of the heat generated in her biceps. She needed another eighteen inches. With a surge of power she pulled her body yet higher and reached for the back of the ledge. A secure grip attained, she scrambled over the overhang.
Easy. She was her mother’s daughter, for sure. Boyd would have approved.
She patrolled the roof, aware of the cold trickle of rainwater that ran down the back of her neck. There was a large ventilation unit at the centre of the roof and there were four skylights, one towards each corner. She stepped over discarded pieces of scaffolding on the tarpaper and looked at the nearby tower-blocks, their upper floors fading into a wet and gloomy soft focus. The road below was illuminated by the orange light that fell from street lamps. A group of drunken men staggered out of a pub, laughing and swearing. One of them vomited over the bonnet of a parked Vectra. Somewhere in the distance, police sirens cut through the night.
Petra returned to one of the skylights and produced a jemmy from her rucksack. It opened easily, the rotten plastic frame offering little resistance. She opened the skylight and lowered herself on to the metal gantry that ran around the upper areas of the warehouse. A caged ladder led to the floor.
She saw wooden crates piled high along one wall, opposite three baby fork-lift trucks. Remembering where the office was she swung her Mag-Lite torch in its direction, the light reflecting back off the grease stains on the glass. Then she made her way to the warehouse entrance and laid two small black boxes on either side of the cargo door. There was a switch on the smaller unit which, when activated, started blinking. She played with the position of the box until a steady green light appeared; the beam between the two units was now established. She headed back towards the office and turned on the handheld monitor; if the beam was broken, an alarm would sound.
She switched on the light in the office. Curiosity drew her to the wall at the back. A collection of receipts and invoices was pinned to it. She looked behind them and saw the hole. Someone had clawed the bullet out of the plaster but they hadn’t bothered to repair the damage. Petra smiled. It was pure luck she hadn’t killed Ismail Qadiq. Stephanie hadn’t had a clue what she was doing and yet had managed to squeeze the name of Reza Mohammed from the Egyptian more easily than Petra could have. On the other hand, Stephanie could just as easily have killed him by mistake.
For five hours, Petra went through Qadiq’s records. Some of the information she came across was in Arabic but most of it was in English. She saw Mustafa Sela’s name several times. The Reza Mohammed-Mustafa Sela connection remained a mystery. She came across two references to the al-Sharif Students Hostel in Earls Court. One had the name Obaid by it, the other had Mirqas, which later pricked her attention when she discovered a piece of paper in an old notebook. Scribbled in biro, in one corner, was the name of Keith Proctor and his address. It was followed by a slash and the name of Mirqas. Also written in the same hand were some four-digit numbers. The way the information had been put down, Petra guessed that Qadiq had been having a conversation on the phone; it wasn’t the primary material on the page. Perhaps the notebook had been the closest thing to hand.
Just after four, she found a photo-copy of a fax. Her eye was caught by an item near the top of the single page: Re: FAT/3. There were twelve incomprehensible lines beneath it. Each was a collection of numbers and letters. There appeared to be no coherent factor linking any of them. The sender’s name and number had been removed and the space for the date was blank.
Petra left the building the same way she had entered it, just after six. She got into the white Volkswagen Golf that she had parked three streets away and drove back through the City. The first of the bankers and brokers were making their way from the Underground stations to their glass towers. She headed for the Embankment and then parked in Savoy Place. She left the keys in the glove compartment. The Magenta House courier would have keys of their own.
She was back at her flat by seven.
* * *
Midday. Petra trawled the aisles of the Europa supermarket. The fluorescent overheads compounded her headache. She tested bananas and oranges for ripeness but her mind paid no attention to what her fingertips were telling her. Keith Proctor consumed her thoughts. Seeing his name scribbled in Qadiq’s notebook had soured her heart.
She had often assumed that Reza Mohammed had killed Proctor. Proctor had been in contact with Qadiq during his search for the NE027 bomber—Stephanie had got Qadiq’s address from Proctor’s computer diary—so it seemed reasonable that Qadiq might have alerted Mohammed to the fact that there was a journalist who was intending to expose him. But now it seemed that someone named Mirqas might have been responsible. It occurred to her that Mirqas and Mohammed were one and the same but then she dismissed the thought for being too convenient.
Proctor was the reason that Stephanie had become Petra. The goal might have been justice for her dead family but Proctor had proved to be the catalyst. Without him, Petra would still have been Stephanie masquerading as Lisa. Probably. Or maybe she would have been dead by now, a victim of a savage client, or of Dean West’s expired patience, or of an overdose, perhaps intentional, perhaps not.
* * *
Petra spent the afternoon watching a black-and-white film on Channel Five. Dressed in a grey vest and black leggings, she lay on the sofa, her frame curled around the cushions she clutched to her ribs. At six, she checked her lap-top. There was a message on the Heavens Above site for V. Libensky. She replied using Andrew Smith’s e-mail. It was Serra, suggesting a meeting. Could she be in Paris by midday tomorrow? She sent a return message to say that she could and then had a quick bath so that she wouldn’t be late for Frank.
* * *
There are six of us around the table in this Italian restaurant in Marylebone. On my left is John Fletcher, an old friend of Frank’s who works as an analyst for an investment bank in the City. Mary, his mousy wife, is sitting opposite me. Rick Donald sits to my right. He is an architect and used to work for Sir Norman Foster. His wife is Rachel and she is talking to Frank.
John Fletcher has come straight from work and is still wearing his pin-stripe suit. It is badly creased. So is he. Fletcher is not a public-school product who sailed into his job; he comes from a broken background of poverty, unemployment and divorce, and it is a past he is trying to leave behind for ever. And no matter how successful he becomes, he will never succeed. His drive never allows him to relax for fear of falling behind so that although this is essentially a social occasion, he cannot resist introducing a professional element to our conversation.
‘Brillex-Martins,’ he murmurs
, as he scans the data in his memory. ‘They’re constructing that new chemical facility near Antwerp, right?’
This is heading towards dangerous waters for me. ‘Actually, it’s pharmaceutical,’ I correct him, wondering whether the error was deliberate, ‘but yes, it is close to Antwerp. About fifteen kilometres from the centre.’
‘Have you worked for them long?’
‘Nearly five years,’ I say, hoping that this is what I told Frank.
My stomach tightens with each question. I sip some Barolo. As Petra, I would find this easy but I am trying to be Marina and I cannot simply transfer the attributes of one to the other. I wish I could.
‘And how long have you lived in London?’
‘For about three months.’
He begins to ask me about Brillex-Martins products. About research rumours. About patents. About impending lawsuits. About potential mergers with other companies. My pulse starts to accelerate. Even though Frank is talking to Rachel Donald, I am suddenly convinced that he is listening to me and that he will sense the trouble I am in. This cover is supposed to be effective for those in Khalil’s world, for the kind of people Marc Serra knows, not for City analysts. They were never on the menu. I don’t know the intimate details of my company’s business practices, or even of the products they manufacture. I can see the doubt in Fletcher’s eyes and hope that he construes my reticence as professional caution and not as total ignorance.
‘And what exactly do you do for them?’ he asks.
I use the same reply that I once gave to Frank. ‘I’m a trouble-shooter.’
This raises an eyebrow and I feel it’s time to kill the conversation, so before he can cross-examine my answer, I say, ‘What about you? What exactly is it that you do?’
My food arrives. Spaghetti puttanesca. Naturally.
This is the way some people behave in this city. This is normal. They are in their mid-thirties, mostly. They are professionals, they are spouses, they are parents. I look around at the other diners in this restaurant and many of them are the same. Their normality only serves to heighten my sense of abnormality. It is true that I am younger than all those at this table. At twenty-three I should, perhaps, still be a student. Or maybe I should be embarking upon a career, underpaid but full of optimism. But I don’t feel twenty-three and my optimism lies in fragments at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. Frank only succeeds in intensifying this feeling. If there was no Frank, I wouldn’t have to worry about losing him. I would be alone and, therefore, unafraid.
Mary Fletcher and Rachel Donald begin to talk about babies. Mary has a boy of four and a girl of two, Rachel has a pair of boys, one of three and one of eighteen months. This conversation persists for most of the rest of the evening. They reminisce about first steps and first words, about sleepless nights and cracked nipples. Occasionally, one of them finds it in herself to include me in the conversation.
‘Being Italian, I imagine you’ll be wanting a large family,’ Mary says at one point.
I smile and say that I’m not sure. Being Italian? Being a mother? I am neither, and neither would seem to suit the real me. The real me. Now there’s someone I’d like to meet one day.
Rachel says, ‘I’m sorry, Marina. This must be very boring for you, listening to the two of us going on like this. I’m afraid it happens to all of us. Once you’ve had them, you can’t talk about anything else.’
Evidently.
When I was a teenager, I was adamant that I would never have children. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t even think about it. I just said it to provoke a negative reaction. Now, when I think about it, I find I’m not sure. For instance, I look across the table at Frank—who sees me out of the corner of his eye and manages to direct a smile at me even though he’s listening to Mary—and I can picture us as parents. Frank and Marina (or Stephanie) and their one/two/three children. But this image is transmitted from a parallel universe where he has a perfect job, where I am a happy housewife and mother, where we have a house in the country.
Do I feel the maternal instinct deep within me? Not at the moment. Have I ever felt it? As a child, maybe, but I don’t remember. Besides, bringing a baby into the world in which I have spent the last four years would surely constitute an act of criminality. Perhaps my maternal instinct was eradicated by the alcohol I drank, or by the drugs I took, or by the men who beat and fucked it out of me. Or perhaps it is alive. Perhaps it is dormant, waiting for a time when it will be safe to emerge from the darkness. Yes, perhaps this is what has happened to it.
I cup my glass with both hands, take another sip of wine and cling to this thought. My stomach now feels pleasantly warm. A tired smile creeps across my lips, which draws Rachel’s attention.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ she says.
And I reply smugly, ‘Sorry. Money can’t buy them.’ Which, given my recent past, seems a peculiar thing to say.
* * *
Arm in arm, they crossed Oxford Street. The shoppers were gone, replaced by the homeless who made beds out of damp cardboard and bedrooms out of shop doorways. Two drunks were sitting on a bench, clutching cans of Red Stripe, arguing about nothing. A third drunk urinated on to a recently-planted sapling.
‘What’s wrong?’ Petra asked.
‘I was just thinking about something John said to me.’
‘What?’
‘He said he thought you were very defensive.’
Petra resisted the instant urge to deny it. ‘Really?’
Frank nodded. ‘He thought you were evasive when he was asking you things.’
‘Well, maybe, but you know how it is. Perhaps I would’ve been less reluctant if he’d been a teacher or a doctor. But he’s an analyst for a City firm and I don’t really know him so I have to be careful what I say to him. Information is currency.’
‘He seemed to think your caution extended to personal questions as well.’
‘That might also be true. I don’t know him well enough to be discussing things I consider deeply personal.’
They walked past the American embassy in Grosvenor Square and headed down South Audley Street. The silence jarred.
Eventually, Petra said, ‘What is it? What’s on your mind, Frank?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
The answer irritated her. She stopped walking, forcing him to turn to face her. ‘Of course it matters.’
‘No,’ he insisted. ‘It doesn’t.’
But Petra persisted. ‘Let me guess. You agree with him. You think I am evasive and cautious.’
She watched Frank consider a denial and then dismiss it. ‘To be honest, yes.’
Suddenly, there was nothing to say. Petra felt like an idiot for pressing him. He offered her a way out. ‘But it’s not a problem.’
A mixture of panic and anger flared within her. ‘Well, it obviously is. You think I’m holding out on you.’
‘I think you’re taking your time to tell me stuff. That’s all. And it’s okay.’
She noticed she was shaking. ‘Everybody has secrets, Frank.’
‘I know.’
‘Even you. You must have secrets.’
‘Of course I do.’
Something snapped within her—a baby wishbone inside her head—and the words were suddenly spilling from her lips before she could censor them. ‘Then don’t be such a bloody hypocrite!’
‘I’m not being anything.’
Frank’s smile was supposed to be conciliatory and sympathetic. To Petra, it looked patronizing and it enraged her. ‘God, do you really think this is funny?’
‘I think you’re over-reacting.’
‘I don’t have to tell you everything about me. I don’t have to tell you anything!’
A couple passed by. They stared at Petra and, in return, she glared at them until they averted their eyes.
Frank said, ‘Marina, what’s the matter with you?’
The pause lasted long enough for Petra to lose the edge. Her anger waned just as suddenly as it had exploded. S
he was cold again. She took several deep breaths and then buried her face in her hands. She felt Frank’s hands on her shoulders, felt the welcome weight of reassurance flooding out of them and into her. And this depressed her yet further.
‘It’s okay,’ he told her. ‘I meant it. It doesn’t matter.’
* * *
Dawn was a steel sky leaking rain. When Petra entered the kitchen, Frank was standing by the window overlooking Clarges Street, a mug of coffee in his hand. She wondered how long he had been up; the bed had been empty when her eyes had opened.
‘Morning,’ she said.
He looked around. ‘Marina, about last night–’
More through shame than anger, she said, ‘Oh don’t, Frank. Please.’
He raised a hand. ‘Fine. But there’s just one thing I’ve got to say. And then I’ll give it a rest.’
‘What?’
‘I don’t need to know everything about you. And perhaps it’s better that I don’t. I care about you, not your past, or your job, or anything else.’
They’d returned home in a charged silence and had made love in the darkness before drifting into sleep with hardly a word exchanged between them. On waking alone, Petra had winced at the replay in her mind and had read Frank’s absence as a bad sign. She’d quickly pulled on a pair of old cargo pants and a thick black jersey, the sleeves of which extended beyond her outstretched fingertips. Then she’d crept through the flat, anxious to find Frank. And anxious about what kind of mood he’d be in.
He said, ‘If you have reasons to be evasive, then that’s okay. Let’s leave it at that. Maybe you’ll feel you can tell me things in the future, maybe not. But let’s not make it a problem now. All right?’
Words failed her. Petra crossed the kitchen, put her arms around his neck and drew him into a full-blooded kiss. She could taste the coffee on his tongue.
* * *
They kissed and Petra tasted nicotine on his tongue.
Serra said, ‘I’ve missed you.’
Petra swallowed her instinctive reaction. ‘I’ve missed you, too.’